


Authorization.

by VexedServos (TheOtherEyeIsNotResponsive)



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Gore, Insomnia, Malicious coding, Nightmares, Robogore, Slave Coding (Transformers), Whump, references to past torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:55:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24941167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOtherEyeIsNotResponsive/pseuds/VexedServos
Summary: The functionalists may have died, but their hold on Rung hasn't. Struggling to reintegrate with society after his liberation, his nightmares plague him.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	Authorization.

**Author's Note:**

> Realized I had written this as part of a daily whump writing exercise. Combined day 3 (insomnia) and day 4 ("no, stop!").

Despite everything - despite the rumors and hushed tones, despite the distant explosions, despite the rubble laying outside, despite the council… despite it all, the diner is as busy as ever. Patrons of all shapes and sizes fill the still standing building, in search of energon, of company. Of something to do when all feels null. 

Rung struggles to keep up with orders, not able to make eye contact with anyone for fear of… His legs buckle, mind racing. It doesn’t matter. It will never matter again.

The only justifiable fear left is being thrown out. He must get better, do  _ better _ than his best. The hole he’d leave would be filled by any of these faithful patrons. Anyone can do his job. He can’t let the owner lose faith in him. He was given a  _ chance _ , and he can’t he can’t he won’t let his-  _ the  _ owner notice his ragged system. 

He needs to sleep well tonight. 

And all he has to do is make it through this minute. 

This hour.

This shift.. 

And then....

It’s over, and he’s helping close down for the day. 

And asking if there’s anything else he can do to help, and if he’s absolutely  _ sure _ there’s nothing else. 

And giving his polite goodbyes, and thank-yous, so many thank-yous (now too many thank-yous by the  _ look _ the owner is giving). 

And leaving in time to see the sun start to peak past skyrises, and  _ oh _ how he can’t get over its beauty (how many decades had he been kept from such an awe-inspiring view?).

And he’s stumbling home (his new home). And he’s so tired, and his engine feels like it’ll sputter out into oblivion, and his bed is oh so close. 

And yet, he prays for sleep. Prays to any god still listening after all his past pleadings.  _ Please allow me to sleep. Please let me deserve sleep. Please let it come I’ll do whatever you ask of me. _

He makes it up the stairs, through the door, across the floor. Makes contact with the bed and collapses. It is soft to his exhausted frame, and his mind shuts down for the day. 

.

.

.

_ Exhausted frame. Trembling. Arms shaking from the effort to keep upright.  _

_ It smells like ozone. _

_ Choking. _

_ Wet hot burning bubbling up through his throat. Damaged lines, broken frame. A warble barely breaching the wet to form a single plea. _

_ “ _ Please… _ ” he heaves past wet chunks of metal, past spitting sparks and desperation. _

_ Gasps. Purges with a  _ splugh _.  _

_ More  _ _ blood _ _. More  _ _ blood _ _. More  _ _ blood _ _ onto the ground at the sleek polished, unsullied, pedes there.  _ _ Blood _ _ carrying the sting of lining, of torn tubing.  _

_ “Look at me.” _

_ He looks up. Nine of Twelve. Owner. Master.  _

_ “We’ll never leave you. Every step you take, know that we caused that limp. Every healed cut, scar, memory.”  _

_ He grips the stained chin, and all pain leaves.  _

_ "We are in your very spark.” _

_ “No, stop." _

_ “We will always be with you.” _

_ “Stop stop, pl _ ease no,” tears running down his checks and shaking frame, “please no, let me go.”

He curls away, servos keeping his sobs from reaching the streets. 

They’re dead. He saw them die. 

He’s escaped. He has a job (until he’s fired), an apartment (until it’s destroyed), a  _ future  _ (there’s war in the air). A future that doesn’t have to involve pain and torment and  _ them _ . And, and sunrises! And even sunsets, if his shift changes.

If things change. 

If it’s even possible to change, at this point.

He shifts off the bed, peels open a cube, walks to an open gap in the wall. 

The sun has risen, he notes, taking a sip. 

He can fight it, struggle against it, plead for it to stop… but it's all of little use. 

The coding's still there.

He’s not allowed to sleep. 

He doesn’t deserve to sleep.

There’s no one alive left to authorize it. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Have a good day!


End file.
